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Kathy Reichs: Monday Mourning

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Kathy Reichs Monday Mourning

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And Ryan’s amusement over the Journal piece was lowering my threshold for irritation.

Get over it, Brennan. Don’t take yourself so seriously.

“Really?” I smiled.

“Critics gave you four stars.”

Only four?

“I see.”

“Word is, Pétit’s going down.”

I said nothing.

“Tell me about this pizza parlor case.” Ryan switched gears.

“Isn’t the whole affair laid out in Le Journal?” I helped myself to more salad.

“Coverage is a bit vague. May I have that?”

I handed him the bowl.

We ate arugula for a full three minutes. Ryan broke the silence.

“Are you going to tell me about your bones?”

My eyes met his. The interest looked sincere.

I relented, but kept my account brief. When I’d finished, Ryan rose and retrieved a section of newspaper from his jacket.

Both shots had been taken from above and to my right. In the first, I was talking to Claudel, eyes angry, gloved finger jabbing the air. The caption might have read “Attack of the Shrew.”

The second captured the shrew on all fours, ass pointing skyward.

“Any idea how the Journal got these?” Ryan asked.

“The owner’s slimeball assistant.”

“Claudel caught the case?”

“Yes.” I picked bread crumbs from the tabletop.

Ryan reached out and placed his hand on mine. “Claudel’s come around a lot.”

I didn’t reply.

Ryan was about to speak again when his cell phone twittered.

Giving my hand a squeeze, he pulled the unit from his belt and checked the caller ID. His eyes flicked up in frustration. Or irritation. Or something I couldn’t read.

“I’ve got to take this,” he said.

Pushing back from the table, he moved off down the hall.

As I cleared dishes I could hear the rhythm of the conversation. The words were muffled, but the cadence suggested agitation.

In moments, he was back.

“Sorry, babe. I’ve got to go.”

“You’re leaving?” I was stunned.

“It’s a thankless business.”

“We haven’t eaten your pastry.”

The Irish blues would not meet mine.

“I’m sorry.”

A peck on the cheek.

The chef was alone with her uneaten surprise.

4

I AWOKE FEELING DOWN AND NOT KNOWING WHY.

Because I was alone? Because my only bed partner was a big white cat? I hadn’t planned my life that way. Pete and I had intended to grow old together. To sail married into the afterlife.

Then my forever-hubby shared Mr. Happy with a real estate agent.

And I enjoyed my own little fling with the bottle.

Whatever, as Katy would say. Life marches.

Outside, the weather was gray, blustery, and uninviting. The clock said seven-ten. Birdie was nowhere to be seen.

Pulling off my nightshirt, I took a hot shower, then blow-dried my hair. Birdie strolled in as I was brushing my teeth. I greeted him, then smiled into the mirror, considering whether it was a mascara day.

Then I remembered.

Ryan’s hasty retreat. The look in his eyes.

Jamming my toothbrush back into its charger, I wandered to the bedroom and stared at the frosted window. Crystalline spirals and snowflake geometrics. So delicate. So fragile.

Like the fantasy I’d constructed of a life with Ryan?

I wondered again what was going on.

And why I was acting the featured ditz in a Doris Day comedy.

“Screw this, Doris,” I said aloud.

Birdie looked up, but kept his thoughts to himself.

“And screw you, Andrew Ryan.”

Returning to the bathroom, I layered on the Revlon.

The Laboratoire de Sciences Judiciaires et de Médecine Légale occupies the top two floors of the Édifice Wilfrid-Derome, a T-shaped building in the Hochelaga-Maissoneuve district, just east of Centre-ville. The Bureau du Coroner is on the eleventh floor, the morgue is in the basement. The remaining space belongs to the SQ.

At eight-fifteen the twelfth floor was filling with white-coated men and women. Several greeted me as I swiped my security pass, first at the lobby entrance, then at the glass doors separating the medicolegal wing from the rest of the T. I returned their “bonjour”s and continued to my office, not in the mood to chat. I was still upset from last night’s encounter with Ryan. Make that nonencounter.

As at most medical examiner and coroner facilities, each workday at the LSJML begins with a meeting of the professional staff. I’d barely removed my outerwear when the phone rang. Pierre LaManche. It had been a busy night. The chief was anxious to begin.

When I entered the conference room, only LaManche and Jean Pelletier were seated at the table. Both did that half-standing thing older men do when women enter a room.

LaManche asked about the Pétit trial. I told him I thought my testimony had gone well.

“And Monday’s recovery?”

“Except for mild hypothermia, and the fact that your animal bones turned out to be three people, that also went well.”

“You will begin your analyses today?” asked LaManche in his Sorbonne French.

“Yes.” I didn’t mention what I thought I already knew based on my cursory examination in the basement. I wanted to be sure.

“Detective Claudel asked me to inform you that he would come today at one-thirty.”

“Detective Claudel will have a long wait. I’ll hardly have begun.”

Hearing Pelletier grunt, I looked in his direction.

Though subordinate to LaManche, Jean Pelletier had been at the lab a full decade when the chief hired on. He was a small, compact man, with thin gray hair and bags under his eyes the size of mackerels.

Pelletier was a devotee of Le Journal. I knew what was coming.

“Oui.” Pelletier’s fingers were permanently yellowed from a half century of smoking Gauloises cigarettes. One of them pointed at me. “Oui. This angle is much more flattering. Highlights your lovely green eyes.”

In answer, I rolled my lovely green eyes.

As I took a chair, Nathalie Ayers, Marcel Morin, and Emily Santangelo joined us. “Bonjour”s and “Comment ça va”s were exchanged. Pelletier complimented Santangelo on her haircut. Her look suggested the subject was best left alone. She was right.

After distributing copies of the day’s lineup, LaManche began discussing and assigning cases.

A forty-seven-year-old man had been found hanging from a cross-beam in his garage in Laval.

A fifty-four-year-old man had been stabbed by his son following an argument over leftover sausages. Mama had called the St-Hyacinthe police.

A resident of Longueuil had slammed his all-terrain vehicle into a snowbank on a rural road in the Gatineau. Alcohol was involved.

An estranged couple had been found dead of gunshot wounds in a home in St-Léonard. Two for her, one for him. The ex-to-be went out with a nine-millimeter Glock in his mouth.

“If I can’t have you no one can.” Pelletier’s dentures clacked as he spoke.

“Typical.” Ayers’s voice sounded bitter.

She was right. We’d seen the scenario all too often.

A young woman had been discovered behind a karaoke bar on rue Jean-Talon. A combination of overdose and hypothermia was suspected.

The pizza basement skeletons had been assigned LSJML numbers 38426, 38427, and 38428.

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